


Of Soul And Spirit

by behindtheinnocence



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: AU, Character Death, Cheating, Danger, F/M, Italian Mafia, Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-05-02 11:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14543271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtheinnocence/pseuds/behindtheinnocence
Summary: Twenty-seven year old Rory Gilmore is working for her future father-in-law Mitchum Huntzberger at The New York Times when he gives her the story that will make or break her career: uncover the identity of the elusive Dodger, the infamous robber of New York City. As she delves deeper into the chaos of organized crime, she can’t help her attraction to Jess Mariano, a member of the last Italian mob family. Will she give up her story for him and a chance for love? Or will the mob and her ambition destroy everything she's ever worked for?





	1. The Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own GG, its characters, or any other references that will occur in this story. Please don’t sue me.

_“There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted within the human breast” ~ Charles Dickens_

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

Logan Huntzberger stared in disbelief at the man sitting at the desk in front of him.

 

Mitchum sat silently, watching his blond heir with cold blue eyes as Logan stood in front of him slack-jawed. As a man of high status and founder of his own ever-expanding empire, Mitchum Huntzberger exuded strength and dominance easily in his demeanor, a demeanor his son sorely lacked.

 

He inwardly sighed. _It’s been 28 years_. _How much longer is he going to have to wait for his son to finally become a man?_ “When have I ever been anything but serious, Logan?”

 

He could feel his irritation rising, but he kept it in check by slightly squeezing his hands that were folded on the mahogany desk in front of him.

 

“You’ve been asking me to give her a chance, telling me that she can handle taking Carson’s spot overseas when he leaves in the summer. Despite my objections, might I add. Well, if you’re so confident in her abilities, here’s her chance to show me she can handle it. Or --” he stopped, hunching forward ever so slightly across the desk. He looked his son square in his eyes before continuing. “Do you have as little faith in her abilities as I do?”  

 

When he saw the slight twitch in Logan’s jaw, Mitchum leaned back in his chair and allowed a smirk to grace his normally stoic features, a clear sign he knew he had won the argument.

 

Logan felt his jaw tighten and clench along with his palms that had been resting against the outside of his thighs. He could feel his hatred for his father burn inside of him like acid corroding metal. That pompous, condescending, all-knowing attitude was why he wanted out from underneath his father’s thumb and legacy. He had never wanted to work for him or follow in his footsteps.

 

Except he knew he had to.

 

His thoughts briefly turned to his failed investment in the media company and the failed business in San Francisco, in which he once again saw sweat turn into disappointment when the company went under. As much as he wanted to break away, he couldn’t. Because he was nothing without his name, his father’s name.

 

God how he hated him. God how he hated himself: for being a failure, for being weak, for being half the man that Mitchum was. After San Francisco, he had resigned himself to being tied to his father, (who took him back into the fold after two years of resistance), to having his life spelled out, to having it ruined before he had even lived.

 

Mitchum had ruined his life.

 

But he didn’t have to ruin Rory’s life too.

 

Rory Gilmore, or Leigh Hayden according to everyone in the office or her articles, was a special girl, _the_ special girl. She was the first person that he had ever fallen for, the only one for which he felt the need to change his playboy ways. He was struck by her intelligence, her wit, her beauty, and most of all her ambition. He knew she had big dreams, dreams that his father had almost killed.

 

When Mitchum first told her that she didn’t have what it took to be a journalist, Logan watched as Rory fell apart, dropping out of Yale and becoming estranged from her mother, an estrangement that had never healed, especially after Lorelai and Luke’s elopement. Rory saw the elopement as a final betrayal, after both her mother and grandparents had kicked her out; after learning the news, she broke all contact with them. 

 

During that year away from Yale, she had accompanied him to the bars with his friends almost every night. Yet, despite all the partying they had done, eventually he saw how depressed she had gotten away from her family and friends. He watched as her blue eyes gradually turned dull gray and her bright and carefree smile became tight and timid, an act she learned to put on when dealing with the ladies in the DAR.  Though he loved their time together, he knew she wished for the world beyond tea parties, galas, and charity auctions. He knew she wanted excitement, adventure, and immersion in culture.

 

After that year, he convinced her to go back and finish her final two years. With renewed ambition (and her father’s financial help), Rory reenlisted and finished her degree in an exhausting, but hard-earned year. He was in London for most of it, but he could hear the absolute joy in her voice every time they were able to talk. That drive to report, to travel and experience the world was her dream. It’s why she declined his initial proposal at her graduation. It’s why they were broken up for three years. She lived the dream, traveling all over the country on a bus reporting on the Obama campaign.

 

Until she was fired.

           

Three years after he walked away, after she declined his proposal, Logan walked into a bar in downtown Manhattan and saw her drunk and disheveled, her brown locks in knots around her face, her silver sequin dress an inch away from slipping off her body as she rambled incoherently to the bartender behind the counter. She looked utterly defeated.

 

He was 26 then. He had just moved to New York from London, helping to spearhead his father’s acquisition of the New York Times, and went to drink away his self-deprecation for doing exactly what his father wanted. Seeing her there a complete mess, he immediately went over and comforted her through several drinks, which turned to the night in his bed. Which turned into another, then another, and now two years later, here they were finally engaged.

 

During the first month of their rekindled relationship, after a lot of drinking and sex, she told him all about her struggles as a journalist. First came her termination on the Obama campaign, in which she was fired for “not being seasoned enough.” Then came her stint as a beats reporter in Chicago, but she quit after a year because she missed the east coast. Then the next year, which saw her termination from The Phoenix in Boston due to budget cuts.

 

When he saw her again, she was drinking away the last of her severance and her dream as a journalist, believing that his father had been right.

 

After hearing her story, Logan had begged Mitchum to give Rory a job. Two months later, he relented (if only to get his son to shut up), but he offered her the job of executive assistant, not reporter. Knowing that was a dig, Rory initially bristled at the offer, but eventually took it given it was at _The Times_ , and she would be grateful to work as anything there. After a year, Mitchum allowed her to publish a few articles as a freelance contributor.

 

Still though, Logan knew she wouldn’t be happy fetching coffee and scheduling meetings for the rest of her life. Rory’s dream was to be a foreign correspondent, like Christiane Amanpour, and so the last year, he had been imploring his father to give Rory a chance to prove herself, to give her something bigger. And now there was a job opening, and it could be hers.

 

Except Mitchum had never liked her, had never approved, so he was going to ask the impossible of her, an impossible that would either kill or crush her.

 

He looked back at his father who was still sitting behind his desk in smug satisfaction. He had detested his father for years now, but never before had he felt such disgust. He opened his mouth to finally tell Mitchum exactly what he thought of him – _fuck you_ – when he heard a knock on the door. He turned and the words died in his throat.

 

“Mr. Huntzberger? You wanted to see me?”

 

Rory stood in the doorway, her small hand resting against the door.

 

“Ah yes! Miss Hayden. Perfect timing. Please come in.” Mitchum stayed seated in his chair and gestured the brunette forward with his arm.

 

Rory glanced at Logan and gave him a brief smile before closing the door and walking forward to take a seat opposite Mitchum at the desk. She brushed her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear, took a deep breath, and looked at the man in front of her. “What can I do for you?”

 

“As you should already know, Carson’s leaving us in the summer.”

 

Rory gave a small nod in response and bit back her irritation over Mitchum's condescension. She was quite used to it after being his assistant for nearly two years.

 

“And, as you should know, we’ll be needing to find a replacement for him overseas.”

 

Rory kept her face neutral, unsure of where he was going with this conversation.

 

Mitchum coolly watched the woman in front of him, waiting to see her reaction. As he expected, she did nothing, just continued to sit in front of him, still as a mouse. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Any other reporter would have expressed some kind of excitement over this opportunity and would have tried to find a way to pitch him/herself. But not Ror— no, _Leigh Hayden_. He silently scoffed. _A name doesn’t change the person._

 

After no response, he continued. “As I’ve told you before, I find you highly competent as an assistant. Although the few articles you’ve done for the paper were done fairly well, I still find you completely green as a journalist. Your former work history would seem to support my opinion…”

 

Rory bit her lip hard, feeling anger start to boil in the pit of her stomach. She did not need a rehashing of just how spectacularly she failed in her early career as a journalist. She was already painfully aware of it. Her ears perked up with his next words.

 

“…However, my _son_ here _\--_ ” he sneered slightly, his eyes flickering to Logan in irritation for a second before switching back to Rory. “-- thinks that you would be perfect to replace Carson. Although whether he believes that because of your skills in the workplace or in the bed remain to be seen.” He gave a forced smile before leaning back in his seat.

 

Rory felt herself freeze as the implication of Mitchum’s words registered in her mind. She shrugged off the veiled insult, quite accustomed to those from her dinners with her grandmother, and instead focused on the opportunity in his words. She stared at Mitchum wide-eyed, her jaw slackening a little in shock. “I – What?”

 

He said nothing, simply stared back at Rory.

 

She blinked rapidly as she forced her mouth to speak. “Mr. Huntzberger, thank --”

 

“I, however, remain unconvinced.”

 

Rory felt her head drop, her excitement dissipating. Of course, she thought to herself, slightly mad that she had gotten her hopes up. How could she forget that Mitchum hated her?

 

“Although,” Mitchum continued, breaking Rory’s thought. “I’m willing to _be_ convinced.”

 

Rory’s head snapped back up.

 

_This was it. This was her shot._

 

Adrenalin rushed through her veins, her fingers and legs suddenly unable to stop twitching. Mitchum was going to give her a story, an actual _real_ story, and she could _not_ fail, not if she wanted to achieve her dream.

 

“Of course,” she said, her mind swirling with ideas on the possible stories she could write. “What would you like me to cover? I could do a news report on the ongoing war in Afghanistan. It’s been 11 years, and the death toll is still climbing. There’s also the uprising in Syria with Dictator Assad. I could do a follow-up story on all the journalists that have died during the conflict so far. Or, if you’d like something a bit more domestic, I could do a story on the Sandy Hook shooting and the call for gun reform. I could even turn that into an exposé on school shootings in general and how they --” she stopped short when Mitchum began to laugh.

 

Rory narrowed her eyes at the man chuckling at his desk, and suddenly her patience was gone. She quickly shot up from her seat. “I’m glad you find me so amusing. But as I’m sure _you_ know, time is money, and since this meeting seems to be a complete waste of _my_ time, I’m going back to my desk.” She turned and started making her way to the door.

 

Mitchum quieted himself and cleared his throat. “There’s no need for that. I apologize. It’s just been awhile since I’ve heard you talk that fast.”

 

Rory gave a sharp exhale before turning around, still standing close to the door. “People often tend to talk a lot when they’re passionate about something. And despite your opinions, I’m passionate about journalism.” She met his blue eyes with cold ones of her own.

 

Mitchum smiled wryly, silently appraising her defiance. He pursed his lips thoughtfully before continuing towards his point. “Hmm… well unfortunately the stories you mentioned are already being covered by veteran reporters. Not to mention, those are a bit more on the dangerous side for someone of your status --”

 

“I’ll cover any story,” Rory interjected firmly.

 

Mitchum rose an eyebrow. “Any?”

 

She stared back in response.

 

He smirked. “In that case, I have a story in mind.”

 

Logan had remained quiet, watching in silence as his father and fiancé exchanged words. He bristled slightly as his father’s veiled slur against Rory, but bit his tongue, knowing Rory could fight her battles herself. She may have changed her name, but she was still her mother’s daughter. Now however, as he saw Rory fall right into his father’s trap, he had to speak up.

 

“No, Dad.”

 

Logan flinched slightly as both heads turned sharply towards him. Rory’s eyes were full of disbelief while Mitchum’s held satisfaction. Logan glared at the man before reiterating. “No. You just spoke about Rory’s suggestions being too dangerous, but want to give her a story that’s more dangerous than all three of those combined. I’m not just gonna stand by and watch you try to get my fiancé killed.”

 

Rory bit her lip hesitantly before flicking her eyes back to Mitchum. “What story?” she asked, trying to quell the slight quiver in her voice. She didn’t want to admit it, but Logan’s words just shook her. If Logan, the bravest and most reckless man she had ever met, didn’t want her covering this story, then it must be incredibly risky.

 

She waited for Mitchum’s reply, but quickly repeated her question when she noticed the staring match between father and son. “What story?” she asked again firmly.

 

MItchum broke eye contact with his son as he glanced back at Rory. “How much do you know about the crime scene in the city?”

 

“Crime scene? Like, crime in general, or organized crime?”

 

“Organized crime.”

 

“Well, the crime rate has been dropping. The gangs have been pretty much decimated thanks to the FBI’s wire tappings and cameras. Same goes for the mobs. Almost everyone else has packed their bags and left the city.”

 

Mitchum nodded, slightly surprised by her knowledge. But then again, knowledge was never her problem. “Almost.”

 

“Who’s left?”

 

“The Bennellis.”

 

Rory felt a chill run up her spine, like spiders were dancing on her skin. “The Bennellis?” she repeated softly. The Italian mob. One of the five families. _No._ She shook her head. “That’s not possible. The FBI shut them all down a decade ago. There’s nothing left of the five families.”

 

“Not true. They’re the last family, and they’re still kicking. Barely.”

 

“How? How do you know this?”

 

“I have my sources. And for starters, they never got into the drug trade. Kept their racket simple. Robbery.”

 

“Robbery? You’re telling me some random muggings are enough to keep the last of the New York Italian mobs going?”

 

“No. They’ve had some help.”

 

“Help? Oh sure,” Rory said sardonically. “Let me guess, they found a young Charlie Croker hiding in the streets of New York. They figured if he can steal from the mob, why not let him steal _for_ the mob. Ooh, or better yet, a John Robie. Hey, he came out of retirement once to catch a copycat. Who knows what he’d do to work for the mob?”

 

Mitchum scowled at Rory while she mocked his statement, but kept quiet, waiting for the realization to hit the young woman.

 

Logan sighed, feeling his father’s patience crumbling. “Ace, come on.”

 

Rory rolled her eyes. “No, you come on. You know what these people have in common? They’re fictional characters. You know why? Because the mob is dead. Kaput. Belly-up. In fact, the only city criminal that seems have any type of truth behind him is --”

 

Rory cut off when her thoughts focused on the one infamous robber of the city, infamous because he’s never been caught and no one knows who he is. The FBI nicknamed him after the best fictional thief in the world. She darted her eyes back over to Mitchum, who was now leaning back in his chair, another smirk on his face.

 

Her eyes widened. “Dodger’s working for the Bennellis?”

 

Mitchum nodded slightly. “That’s the rumor.”

 

She swallowed hard, now suddenly aware of what Mitchum wanted and why Logan was worried. “You want me to find out who Dodger is,” she whispered to herself. Her gaze turned to the floor as she brought her arms around to hug her torso. A feat that no one had ever done, not even a government agency, and Mitchum wanted her to accomplish it. The dream of being a foreign correspondent, that finally felt within her grasp, now suddenly felt very far away.

 

Logan reached out and touched her on the arm. “You don’t have to do this, Ace,” he said soothingly. “We’ll find some other way to let you be the next Christiane Amanpour.”

 

“Not while I own this paper.”

 

Logan turned to round on his father. “Dad, that’s enough! This is completely unfair and you know it! These aren’t just people! They’re criminals and murderers!”

 

“And Bashar Assad isn’t?”

 

Logan’s reply died in his throat, the truth of his father’s question weighing down his tongue.

 

“Seven years ago, I told her that she didn’t have what it took. Now’s her chance to prove me wrong.” Mitchum turned his gaze to Rory. “What do you say, Miss Hayden?”

 

Rory could feel the familiar grip of fear in her nerves and closed her eyes tightly, trying to calm herself down. She mentally assembled a pros and con list, quickly running through the most obvious observations. If she succeeded in writing this story, she would finally have her dream job. If she didn’t, it would most likely be because she was dead. Was this job worth losing her life?

 

Her head drooped forward, knowing defeat was highly likely. The cons piled up in her head: she could lose her life, she could lose Logan, she’d never get another chance at being a journalist, she would never reconcile with her family, Mitchum would have been right all along…

 

Mitchum. She peered her eyes upward at him, seeing the victory behind his eyes, and recognized it as the challenge it was. He was testing her. He wanted her to say no. He wanted her to admit that she could never handle reporting on war. That she could never handle being in a foreign country and watching as bombs blew up all around her. Trying to find Dodger within the last of the five families would be the same as trying to report on the Syrian uprising. It was all war.

 

She could feel Logan’s gaze on her, pleading with his brown eyes in that soft charming way, and though she loved him and knew the logical thing would be to find another way, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking this was her last chance. The few pros flashed repeatedly in her mind, and she knew what she had to do.

 

She lifted her head and stared back into Mitchum’s blue eyes confidently.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 


	2. The Resolution

* * *

 

_“…[she] left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of [her] future promotion…”_

_~ Charles Dickens_

 

Six months.

 

Mitchum had given her six months to find Dodger and write her article.

 

Rory nervously tapped her pen against her desk as she thought about her decision. Was she crazy? Had she officially crossed the line between zany and insanity? Looking back at the conversation that ended an hour ago, it certainly seemed like she had. When she walked out of Mitchum’s office to head back to her desk, she caught Logan’s eye and saw the incredulity written all over his face. She knew how it looked. Logan was the one that took risks and did stupid, irrational things. Not her. She was always the cautious one, always the one with the rationale and the plan.

 

She leaned back in the chair as she recalled their fight from years ago, when she was in her last couple months in the DAR. He and the LBD had decided to go to Costa Rica for one last hurrah, and she had argued with Logan for weeks about it until he left. She remembered throwing out words like “reckless” and “irresponsible,” and she was right, given that he had ended up in the hospital with a collapsed lung, broken bones, and a concussion. But now, six years later, she was the reckless and irresponsible one, and what she was about to embark on was going to be much worse than parachute jumping off a cliff.

 

Rory bit her lip, unease settling in her stomach as Logan’s words flitted through her mind.

 

_“These aren’t just people! They’re criminals and murderers!”_

He definitely had a point. The little that she knew about the Italian Mafia had mostly been gleamed from movie marathons with her mom, and the one thing that was for certain was they wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone that threatened their organization. If she was made, she was dead.

 

But Mitchum had a point too.

 

_“And Bashar Assad isn’t?”_

Yes. He was. Marie Colvin’s recent death was proof of that. The job of foreign correspondent was just as dangerous to her well-being. She picked this dream because of her desire for travel and reporting, but at any second, she could be shot, blown up, kidnapped, tortured, or assassinated by despots.

 

Being a correspondent wasn’t for the timid or weak-hearted. And that’s exactly how Mitchum saw her. Hence why he gave her this assignment that posed all the same risks. The only question: was she timid and weak-hearted?

 

She didn’t used to think so, not when she was in high school and she had the entire support of her family and hometown, when she was successful in her studies at Chilton and overcoming Paris’ attempts to thwart her academically. But after struggling though Yale and her first jobs in her career, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

It seemed like a lifetime ago, when she was valedictorian and rattling off strong women role models in her speech at graduation, when she admitted that all she ever wanted to be was her mom.

_Her mom…_

 

She hadn’t talked to Lorelai in years, not since she found out about her marriage to Luke, and thinking about her now brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away quickly, knowing now was not the time to break down. She missed her mom terribly. But how could she ever face her while she was still like this? Still a failure? Sure, she worked at the New York Times, but it was a handout because she was with a Huntzberger. She hadn’t earned it, not the way her mother wanted her to. She was supposed to be Lorelai’s hope, her success story, and she had let her down. Why else would Lorelai not invite her to the wedding? To her and Luke’s wedding? _The_ _wedding?_

 

The incessant tapping of the pen finally broke through her thoughts, and Rory knew that, despite her words from her conversation with Mitchum, she was anything but confident about her decision. Pushing thoughts of her mother aside, she hunched forward and opened a drawer. She grabbed a stack of paper, knowing she needed reassurances. Her initial mental analysis wasn’t enough. She needed to dive deeper and calculate every possible peril to truly be comfortable with this choice. She grabbed her pen and started writing. _Pro…_

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Three hours later, Rory set her pen down with a frown. She stretched her arms above her head, arching her back to loosen the stiffness in her body. Feeling slightly better, she looked back at her desk. There it was, all listed out on four sheets of notebook paper. Three hundred and forty-seven reasons why doing this story on Dodger was a bad idea. And only fifty-two reasons to support her decision.

 

She let out a groan and sighed, slumping over in her chair. She brought her head to the desk and breathed in deeply. She knew it wasn’t too late to back out. She could retract her statement and continue doing a few puff pieces a year. But she would never have Mitchum’s respect. And if she was honest with herself, she wouldn’t have her own respect either.

 

She lifted her head and looked back at the papers. Her eyes shifted to the column on the left. Just like in Mitchum’s office, she felt an inexplicable pull to the pros. Because she knew, if she could pull this off, it would be her redemption. If she was successful, she would have her dream job and her dream life. No more making copies or travel plans for Mitchum and other journalists. She would have her own assistant. No more relying on the Huntzberger status for respect. She would have made a name for herself. She could finally face her family again, with proof that she was Rory Gilmore, the smart, ambitious, and successful daughter of Lorelai Gilmore. She could make them proud of her again.

 

Though the risks were plenty, the potential rewards were too great to pass up. She may be crazy, but she was going to do this.

 

“Hayden! Is Huntzberger gonna have you here all night?”

 

Her head shot up, shocked out of her reverie. She noticed Judy, a petite fellow assistant dressed in a peacoat and boots, who was headed back home. “What?” Rory asked as she blinked to clear her thoughts. She looked around for the clock and noticed the time. Half past seven. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “Wow. Time totally slipped away from me.” She gave Judy a small smile. “I’m just finishing some research. Mr. Huntzberger gave me a story.”

 

“Nice,” Judy drawled out. “You’ll be writing with the big boys in no time.” She glanced behind Rory and smirked. “Just don’t stay here all night. Not when you got that hunk to go home with.” She gave a suggestive wink before walking out of the room.

 

Rory bit her lip, feeling a pair of arms encircle her from behind. She closed her eyes and smiled softly as she inhaled her fiancé’s cologne. Logan nuzzled her neck before leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Hey,” he whispered into her ear.

 

“Hey.”

 

“I tried to talk to you twice today, but you were like a guard at Buckingham palace. What were you working so hard on that your own fiancé couldn’t even distract you?” He looked down at the desk and saw the pro and con list. He reached a hand out.

 

Rory panicked slightly at the movement, and quickly tried to cover the column, but Logan was faster, his hand grabbing a hold of the papers. His eyes quickly scanned the words and he let out a soft chuckle.

 

 “Oh, thank God. You haven’t lost all grip on reality. You really had me worried there.”

 

“Logan,” she sighed, reaching out to grab the pages back from him. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m going to do this.”

 

Logan stared at Rory’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

 

“I _mean_ I’m going to do this. I’m going to find out who Dodger is.”

 

“But you sat down and wrote your famous pro/con list. And on it, there’s at least ten times as many cons as there are pros. And you never decide against the list.”

 

She shrugged. “Well, this time I am.”

 

“Ace, you can’t be serious.”

 

Rory rolled her eyes and rose from her chair. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m tired and in desperate need of some coffee. I haven’t been caffeinated in over three hours. If I don’t get some coffee in these veins, you’re gonna need a wheelchair to get me home.” She reaches out for her work folders, putting them in her purse.

 

Logan grabbed her arm when she reached out to grab the notebook pages. With his free hand, he takes the papers back. “Rory, this is insane,” he says, shaking the document. “Look at what you wrote.” He glances down and starts reading off some items in the cons column. “Here, Number 20: ‘I could end up doing criminal acts and get arrested before I could ever finish the story.’ Number 57: ‘They could kill my entire family.’” He flips the page and continues reading. “Number 93: ‘There’s a chance Mitchum still won’t give me the job and everything would have been for nothing.’ You’ve listed down all the reasons why you can’t do this, and not a single one of them is invalid.”

 

Rory rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. She groaned slightly in frustration. “Logan, stop,” she said, putting up a palm. “I have to do this.”

 

“Why?” Logan threw the pages back onto her desk, also frustrated. “What could possibly possess you to play Nancy Drew in the Italian mob just to get a single name?”

 

“Because!” she cried out, tossing her purse down on the chair. “Without this, I have nothing!”

 

Logan blinked. “What are you talking about? You have me. You’re working at The Times.” He gestured to himself and the desks around the office.

 

“Not as a reporter!” she shot back. “I mean, what am I doing? I’m going around fetching coffees for your father, and scheduling meetings, and sending out faxes and memos. I’m nothing more than a glorified secretary. Which, I didn’t even get on my own! The only reason I got this job is because we’re together. This isn’t what I want!”

 

“Then quit! You don’t even need to work. You know I’ve got more than enough money to support us both.”

 

Rory reared her head back. “Quit my job? I can’t do that,” she said, turning around and walking a few meters away.

 

Logan rolled his eyes. “Of course you can. You can do whatever you want. You don’t like this job? Quit and find something else. Be a doctor. Be a clown. Be whatever you want!”

 

“Well, I want to be a journalist and this is the only way your dad will take me seriously!”

 

“He’s not the only newspaper owner out there! There’s plenty of other people that would be happy to have you.”

 

“Oh yeah?” she challenged, turning back around to face him. “Where are they at? Who’s lining up to hire Rory Gilmore as a journalist?”

 

Logan groaned and slumped his shoulders. God, he needed a drink. “Ace --” he started.

 

She pointed at him. “Exactly. That’s half the reason why I’m Leigh Hayden here because no one wants Rory Gilmore, especially not after she’s been fired twice and has a criminal record. And if I quit the New York Times, you know, the best paper in the country – _no_ in the world – then absolutely no one would ever take me seriously again.”

 

“Well it’s not like you haven’t quit before!”

 

Rory stared back at her fiancé, her mouth opened slightly in shock. “What did you just say?” she asked quietly. She brought her hand to her heart as the sting of his words settled in her chest.

 

Logan exhaled sharply, dropping his head. “Ace, come on,” he said, lowering his voice. He took a few steps towards her and brushed her arm. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

She flinched away from his contact. “Then how exactly did you mean it? It’s not like you can take that statement a million different ways.”

 

“I just meant that you quit something before and we were okay.”

 

“Okay? Okay?!” she burst out, her blue eyes darkening like the sky before a storm.

 

Logan took an involuntary step back. “Ace --” he tried, hoping to soothe her.

 

She ignored him. “I don’t know what your definition of okay is, but _I_ was _not_ okay. My relationship with Mom was completely broken. We didn’t talk at all, and haven’t in six years! I was living in my grandparents’ pool house and palling around with my grandmother! I was a member of the DAR, organizing parties! And the rest of the time I was with you, wasting my life drinking and being a designated driver!”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he shot back, bringing his hands up in front of him. “Don’t you bring me into this! I didn’t tell you to drop out of Yale. That was your choice!”

 

“I didn’t say anything about you!”

 

“Yes you did! You brought up the drinking! I didn’t force you to go out! If you wanted, you could have said no!”

 

“Well, it’s not like you stopped me!”

 

“Why would I?! We were in our early twenties and I thought we were having fun!”

 

The two stared at each other, both breathing heavy from their outbursts.

 

Rory squeezed her lips shut and bowed her head. “Fun,” she repeated weakly, tears brimming at the corner of her eyes. “Yeah.” She walked over to her desk and put her list in her purse. Zipping it, she grabbed her coat and started walking towards the exit. She felt a touch on her elbow before she reached the door. Stopping, she stood still as Logan came in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders, running them gently up and down her arms.

 

“Ace,” he said softly, bending his head forward slightly.  “You know I love you.”

 

She huffed lightly. “But you don’t believe in me.”

 

He shook his head. “Come on, you know that’s not true. Of course I believe in you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten you to go back to Yale.”

 

Rory scrunched her face, trying to keep her tears in. “Then why are you fighting me on this?”

 

“Because I don’t want the love of my life to die.” He moved his hands to her face, gently rubbing his thumbs over her cheeks. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?” He gave her a small smile as she met his eyes.

 

She smiled back weakly before briefly nodding her head. She reached out and ran her fingers down his jaw before leaning in and giving him a soft lingering kiss. “I understand,” she whispered as she pulled away. She looked back into his warm brown eyes, her smile disappearing as her face turned serious. “But I need you to understand that this is something I have to do.”

 

Logan started shaking his head hard, exasperation written plainly on his features. “Rory --”

 

“No, Logan,” she said, sharply cutting him off. “My mind is made up. I’m doing this story. I have to. I’ll see you at home.” She gave him one last look in his eyes before walking around him and out the door. She took the elevator down to the lobby, and as she hit the chilly night air of the city, she breathed a sigh of relief, suddenly feeling lighthearted. She had made her decision. Now it was time to get to work.

 

Logan scowled at his fiancée’s retreating back. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this frustrated with her. Actually scratch that, he thought to himself. _I don’t think I’ve ever been this frustrated with her_. On the one hand, it was somewhat reassuring to see some fire reignite behind those cerulean eyes. Scary even. It had been awhile since he had seen her passionate about her work. But on the other hand, there’s no point in passion if she winds up dead.

 

He racked his brain for a way to get through to her, to show her how completely unhinged this decision of hers really was, but deep down he knew he couldn’t get through to her. Rory was the most rational person he had ever met. He knew that any counter-argument he threw at her, she had already considered. Hell, it was all written out in pros and cons. Yet even knowing all the risks, she was still going to do this.

 

He exhaled slowly in defeat, rubbing a hand across his mouth. Well, if he couldn’t reason with her, he could at least try to protect her. And there’s only one person he would trust with the job.

 

He withdrew his hand from his face and reached down into his pants pocket. Grabbing his cellphone, he ran quickly through his contacts before finding the name he needed. His finger hovered over the screen for a second as he slightly hesitated. Rory is not going to like this, he thought silently, before tossing the thought away and pressing the number. She may not like it, but he wasn’t going to stand by and watch her inadvertently kill herself.

 

The phone rang for a moment before picking up.

 

“Dugray? It’s Logan. I need a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So there’s chapter 2! I hope you guys enjoyed it. Again, not much happening in this chapter because it’s still mostly setting, but now that Rory’s got her mind fully set, she’ll be going full speed ahead after this. 
> 
> I’ve got the entire outline all worked out now. The story is going to be roughly 30 chapters with an epilogue, so there’s ALOT more action still to come. I hope to keep updates to every week on Saturdays. Hopefully the muse can keep up.
> 
> And for those of you wondering, Jess will make his first appearance in chapter 5; after that, he’ll pretty much be in the rest of the chapters.
> 
> A special thank you to everyone who has reviewed, kudoed, bookmarked, or even viewed this story. Your response means the world to me and gives me that added boost to keep writing. Please continue to let me know what you think :) 
> 
> Until next!


	3. The Partnership

* * *

 

_“…she felt the full hopelessness of her situation: but she turned back…”_

_~ Charles Dickens_

 

He stood in the shadows, casually leaning against the red brick of the building. Sweat beads trickled down from his gelled locks onto his face, and he sighed inwardly. Though doing his best to stay in the shade -- the sun was taking no prisoners -- he felt like he was baking in his charcoal suit. While not working for the Bureau today, he still wore his regular work outfit, despite the fact that it was wool, because he knew the impact of a well-tailored three piece on the female population. _Speaking of female…_ An attractive blonde in a crop top, daisy dukes, and heels walked past him, and he couldn’t help the low whistle that left his lips. She turned slightly towards him with a coy smile before continuing her pace. His eyes zeroed in on her hips as they swayed with every step she took. His body was eager to follow after the blonde, but he had a task to do. Another drip fell from his forehead, and he reached a hand up to wipe the sweat away with the back of his hand before refocusing his light blue eyes on his subject: the slender woman across the street.

 

A smirk came to his lips as he watched the brunette animatedly talk with an older man wearing glasses. From his vantage point, he could clearly see the desperation written on her face as she sped through her pitch, a pitch she had been giving for the last few weeks. All through her speech, he could see the man’s eyes get wider and wider behind the clear lenses, and he let out a chuckle. _Another one bites the dust_ , he thought, when the older man started shouting in Italian before making a beeline in the opposite direction away from the woman.

 

“Wait! Please!” The brunette cried, trying to take off after him, but she got no more than a few steps before she tripped over the shoes of a tourist and fell to her knees on the concrete. When she looked up, the older man was gone, lost in the sea of people walking the streets of Manhattan.

 

He bit his lip to quiet a laugh that threatened to leave his throat when he saw her blue eyes start to water, blue eyes that had transfixed him the first moment he laid eyes on her. He watched the lady blink furiously before she slowly got to her feet. He could see defeat written clearly in her slumped shoulders and watched as she wrapped her arms around her torso before turning around and walking away. He waited a few seconds before he stepped out of the shadows and followed her.

 

It had been a month since he got the call from his friend. After a few wisecracks, he listened patiently as Logan ranted to him on the phone about his fiancée, his father, and the dangerous choice she had made. When Logan had asked for his help, he initially wanted to refuse, knowing his heavy case load and Rory’s own temperament. Another smirk came to his face as he remembered, with a little bit of nostalgia, the way she used to throw snark after his advances. She could be perfectly savage, and he knew she didn’t want or need his protection. She could handle herself.

 

But Logan was a friend, almost family, and since he had offered to pay him more than a year’s salary (and he already made good money), he said yes. Plus, it gave him an opportunity to interact with his former crush. He would never admit it, but just watching her the past month, spirited in her pursuit of this story, he realized he had missed her. More than a little bit.

 

He followed Rory for a few blocks before she turned and went inside a coffee shop. He quickened his pace slightly, and from some yards away, peered into the window of the store. He watched her order a huge cup of coffee, take a long gulp, and then gingerly walk to a table and plop down on the seat. She took another long drink before she slumped forward, her head resting on the table.

 

His heart tugged for the woman, who looked small and lifeless sitting there, and before he knew it, he was entering the store and taking a seat across from her. Rory raised her head at the intrusion, a scowl on her face.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am. Tristan Dugrey. FBI,” he said, pulling out his badge and showing it to her.

 

Rory’s eyes went wide in recognition. “Tristan? What are you doing here? Wait, did you say FBI?”

 

“Yes. And I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put you under arrest.”

 

If he thought her eyes went wide before, they were nothing compared to the size of her eyes now. He wanted to laugh.

 

“What? Why? What did I do?” She exclaimed, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

 

He leaned forward, a teasing smile on his lips to appease her. “Well, as a federal bikini inspector, it is my duty to make sure that on a hot day like this, a woman with a body like yours has to be wearing a bikini. And since you are not, I have to deem it a criminal offense.”

 

Rory let out an audible groan and shook her head. _Classic Tristan._ “Federal Bikini Inspector? Really? Actually that sounds like the perfect job for you. It’s smarmy and sleazy, just like you.”

 

“Ouch,” he grimaced, settling back in his seat. “Jeez, I’ve talked to you for 20 seconds and already you’re throwing punches.”

 

“What can I say? It’s a natural defense against the smarm.”

 

“You say smarm. I say charm.”

 

“Yeah, a real charmer.” She rolled her eyes and swallowed another shot of coffee. “Seriously Tristan. What are you doing here?”

 

He held up the badge again. “I’m working.”

 

“Wait, the badge is real? How did you get a job at the FBI?”

 

“Military training. Decent with computers. Daddy’s money.”

 

“Huh. Well don’t let me keep you from your day job.”

 

“Now, now, Mary. Is that any way to catch up with an old friend from high school?”

 

“I’m sorry. We were friends?”

 

He frowned, taken aback slightly by her hostility. He remembered her sass for sure, but she always struck him as a friendly person.

 

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a bad mood, and don’t want to keep you from working.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

 “Oh. I thought feds usually do something, like track down criminals or run surveillance.”

 

He chuckled. “That’s one aspect of the job. Although…” he leaned forward in his chair and dropped his voice to an audible whisper “… from what I hear, that’s more your job now.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Oh Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How _does_ your search for Dodger go?”

 

“How do you know about that?” _Was he really joking about arresting me?_ Nervous, she drained the last of her coffee.

 

“A little birdie told me. He hopped on my shoulder and started whistling about this reckless woman who dares to brave the Italian mob just for a story.”

 

Rory rolled her eyes, knowing how unlikely that was since only two people knew the subject of her piece. “Bye Tristan,” she said, standing up and walking away.

 

He chuckled again before starting after her. He caught up to her as she walked out the door. “What’s the rush?”

 

“Nothing. I’m tired and just want to go home.”

 

“Ah. The search isn’t going great then?”

 

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped. She tried to walk a little faster, hoping he would take the hint, but she could still hear his footsteps behind her. She stopped abruptly and turned towards him. “Why are you following me? Don’t you have work to get back to?”

 

He shrugged. “I am working.”

 

“No, you’re not. You’re annoying me.”

 

“Perks of the job.”

 

“What job would that be?”

 

He smirked, but remained wordless, instead reaching into his jacket pocket to grab his badge again.

 

“Tristan!”

 

“Fine, fine.” He relented, though still grinning. “You could say protective detail.”

 

“Protective detail?”

 

“Let’s just say a concerned citizen’s paying me a lot of money to make sure his fiancée doesn’t do anything stupid.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hmm…” he pursed his lips at her bewilderment. “You know, Mary, I remember you being a little faster on the uptake.”

 

Her mind took a second to process his information. “Logan’s paying you to spy on me?”

 

“There she is.”

 

“Are you serious? He’s actually paying you to spy on me?!”

 

“Spy, protect, it’s all the same thing.”

 

“I don’t believe this!!!” she exclaimed, stomping away.

 

Again, Tristan followed. “Really? I find this kind of thing to be pretty standard with rich people. In fact, I remember the time my dad hired this private investigator to --”

 

“I’m not interested in your family history Tristan. I can’t believe he hired a stalker behind my back! I am not an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it for the last several years.”

 

“Yes. In a safe and sheltered bubble surrounded by friends and family and money.”

 

She stopped and rounded on him. “Excuse me?”

 

“Oh, come on, Mary. I mean, you may not be a virgin anymore. Well, I mean, I hope not. That would be a waste of a body like yours. After all, you’re only young for awhile and then --”

 

“Tristan!”

 

“Look,” he said, his face turning serious. “I didn’t call you Mary in high school just because of your sexual status. You’re like a fucking Mary Sue.”

 

 “What?”

 

“You transferred into a really hard school from podunk high, and after only like a month of struggle, you’re battling Paris for future valedictorian. You had a boyfriend, that as much as I wanted to punch him in the face, I knew he loved you. The Puffs wanted to recruit you after literally one conversation. The teachers all loved you. You even got special treatment from Headmaster Charleston. And you were the most gorgeous girl in the school.  You were basically perfect. Why do you think I tried so hard to get you to go out with me?”

 

“All of that was because I worked really hard to get into Chilton, and in my studies. That’s why I got to be valedictorian and why the teachers loved me. Plus, I rarely ever got in trouble. And just because I had success in high school doesn’t mean I’m a Mary Sue. I’m not a fictional character, and I’m not some kind of wish-fulfillment!”

 

“Aren’t you?” he countered back, eyebrows raised.

 

Rory’s head reared back, insulted. “You --”

 

“Look,” he said, putting his hands up to diffuse the anger he could feel simmering through the brunette. “I totally agree that this is your life, and I think you’re more than capable of living it any way you see fit.” He waited a second as she relaxed her stance a bit before continuing.

 

“But book smarts and street smarts are two different things, and no amount of ambition or intelligence is going to make these people you’re trying to interview talk to you. And it’s because you don’t really know the Mafia. Especially the Bennellis. These aren’t some kind of common thugs that you meet at night and try to keep from stealing your purse. They’re smart and ruthless. There’s a reason they’re the last surviving family. Yes, there might still be some crime families around, but they’re small fry. They’re not like them.”

 

“What would you know about the Bennellis?”

 

“FBI remember? We’ve been trying to nag them for years, but they stay under the radar. The only things we know about these guys are the big boss and the capo, and their favorite bar. The Bennelli brothers are cold-blooded. You know what their nicknames are? Barber and Triggerman. Barber after Sweeney Todd, ‘cause rumor has it Frank chops up his victims and they’re never seen from again. And then you’ve got Triggerman, who’s always been quick to pull the trigger.

 

“These guys are careful. They keep their numbers small, and they’re picky about who they let in the organization. It’s one of the reasons we can’t find any of their associates, because there’s not a lot of people to choose from. Not to mention they can smell a trap coming from a mile away. And they’re not gonna grant mercy to someone, no matter how beautiful she may look,  who’s trying to take them out. Every time we’ve gotten close to getting a man on the inside, our guy disappears and is never seen or heard from again. And the Bennellis then go underground for months before they resurface.

 

“They work quickly and they work quietly. They never leave any evidence. And now that they’ve got Dodger with them, the best professional thief New York has ever seen, to the point that we can’t even get a picture or ID him because he’s gone before anyone notices anything’s missing, it’s practically game over.

 

“I’m not saying you’re not capable or you can’t protect yourself. I’m just saying that you have no idea what you’re getting into. And the fact that you’ve been trying for a month just to get a lead and you’re nowhere shows that.”

 

Rory had been silent through his speech, and though a part of her still wanted to argue, she couldn’t argue against the facts. She _had_ been trying for a month, pounded the pavement for hours on end each day, and she _was_ nowhere. She bowed her head in defeat and bit her lip before speaking.

 

“Fine. You know what, fine. You can go back and tell Logan that he doesn’t need you anymore ‘cause he won. I’m done.” She gasped quietly, biting her tongue to hold back her tears, and turned to walk away.

 

Tristan stayed rooted on the sidewalk, watching her back, her hair blowing loosely around her shoulders. Again, seeing the defeat in her posture, and hearing the brokenness in her voice tug at his heart strings. He briefly thought about the last time he had seen her in tears: their first kiss. It had been out of a mutual hurt, both having been dumped, but the memory of the sweet salt on his tongue was seared into his brain when his lips met hers. Even when she pulled away and ran from him, that one moment will always be sacred to him. He could feel that moment calling to him now, telling him the same thing it told him then – comfort her, protect her. He let out a sigh and spoke quietly behind her back.

 

“I’m not becoming like them. I am them.”

 

Upon hearing his words, Rory stopped and turned. “What?” she asked, the words piercing her mind, vaguely familiar. She racked her brain until she came to its source. _Donnie Brasco… hmm…_

 

Tristan peered into her watery blue eyes and behind them he saw a flicker of hope igniting a hint of fiery determination. He nodded in resignation. “You really want this, don’t you?”

 

Rory, unsure of what he was thinking, nodded timidly.

 

He gave a wry smile. “Tell you what, if you could tell me what quote that’s from, I’ll give you a lead to start your story. The only lead I’ve got.”

 

She cocked her head to the side. “‘I’m not becoming like them. I am them’? I tell you what that’s from and you’ll help me?”

 

He nodded.

 

She grinned. “Donnie Brasco.”

 

He sighed loudly. “You always were the wittiest girl I’ve ever met.” He shook his head and reached his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and quickly scribbled something on a sheet of paper. Tearing it out of the book, he folded the paper and reached it out to her.

 

Rory stared at the piece of paper, and then glanced in Tristan’s eyes. Seeing no deceit, she quickly placed her fingers on the folded note and tugged slightly to take it.

 

Tristan kept a firm grip. “One condition though.”

 

She rolled her eyes and dropped her hand back down. _Of course._ “What?”

 

“We do this together. You let me protect you and report any significant findings to me, anything that can help me take these guys down. In return, I’ll do my best to help you out and get you the story of your life. Deal?” He raised his eyebrows in question.

 

Rory weighed his proposal in her mind. Though she really didn’t want a guard dog of any sort, she knew that the FBI would have way more resources than she could ever have. Overall, she would be stupid to pass this up. She reached out again, and this time grabbed his hand, the note stuck between both palms. She shook his hand firmly and replied, “Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So there’s the chapter! So sorry for the wait! I hate that it’s late, but unfortunately, I hadn’t had much time to write these past couple of weeks. I ended up getting another job which I’ve needed to work a lot of hours lately because they basically have no people. So those extra hours have zapped my writing time. Thankfully though, it looks like I’ll have a set schedule, so once I get in that rhythm, it should make writing and updating a lot easier!
> 
> We’re pretty much down with the introduction stuff. Next chapter really starts to pick up the action. Rory gets her first introduction into the Mafia, and then the next chapter after that, Jess will be making his first appearance, so stay tuned!
> 
> A big thanks to everyone who has continued to review, favorite, or follow the story! I really appreciate all of the feedback I have gotten. Please continue to leave more feedback if you can. It’s a big motivation when I’m trying to find the time to keep writing :)
> 
> Next chapter won’t be up this Saturday. I have to work the entire weekend, but it should be up next Saturday (6/8). For The Love Of Howl sequel will be updated next week as well, so please stay tuned!
> 
> Until next!


	4. First Impressions (Part 1)

_“…In what situation [does she] place [herself]?”_

_~ Charles Dickens_

 

Johnny Cavallo, known in his circles as “Johnny Boy,” was a short but imposing man with colorful tattoo sleeves, a mouth to match, and an affinity for cigars and bourbon, a pleasure he indulged in while he worked as a bartender in his wife’s bar. The Lemon Drop, nicknamed for Carla Cavallo’s signature drink, was a popular spot among the locals, and Johnny was a favorite. He had a tendency to overpour the drinks, something the inebriated customers appreciated as they gladly gulped down the extra liquor when offered. Though dealing with the drunks had its downside, mainly the cleanup, Johnny found that people were quite talkative once they’ve ingested alcohol. While his customers prattled on, he listened carefully and kept a sharp gaze, a gaze that rarely missed a thing, thanks to his position as consigliere to the Don, the Boss, Frank Bennelli.

 

For the last twenty years, Johnny had been the eyes and ears for the Bennelli crime family, the last of the Italian mobs that once ruled New York City. For twenty years he scouted, listened, and lent a hand to occasional disappearances. He was Bennelli’s right hand man, a role he took pride in as he felt personally responsible for keeping his family alive in this day and age where organized crime was dead.

 

After two decades, while trying to keep customers upright and out of fights, he had trained his ears to listen for any piece of crucial information and his eyes to look for anything suspicious.

 

And she was suspicious.

 

He first noticed her about three hours ago. A tall, yet slender woman with dark brown hair and a pretty face walked past the building in her jean jacket and Converse shoes muttering to herself. She paused slightly by the door before continuing among the throngs of people walking the streets of Manhattan. Twenty minutes later, he looked up from counting his inventory behind the counter and saw her again.

 

He mused for a moment, thinking she might have been a homeless person or a recovering alcoholic, both of which he was quite used to. The first thought he immediately dismissed as she looked too well-kempt to be homeless. The recovering alcoholic seemed more likely, but before he could confirm his theory, she left again. Her departures raised hackles up his spine. _Was she casing the joint?_ He kept a steady eye on the door and remained on guard, his hand close to the bartop. When she didn’t show up after the next thirty minutes, he relaxed, shrugged, and continued his task to get ready to open.

 

Two hours later, after he finished his inventory, Johnny moved from behind the counter to head to the storage room to stock up for the night, and there she was again. He stopped in his tracks, two bottles in hand, and looked at her as she stood in front of the window. She was casually dressed, but her outfit said Barney’s and H&M, shopping staples for members of the Upper East Side. His eyes narrowed into slits, and using the darkness of the room, he cautiously made his way back to the bar.

 

Something didn’t feel right.

 

She was pacing maniacally in front of the door, making various hand movements in the air, and again, the idea that she was an alcoholic came to mind. But her face was bright and clear. It wasn’t sunken in and hollow. Her hands were waving around, but there wasn’t the slight tremor that was present amongst the drunks, a detail he noticed as he handed drink after drink to customers. And given that Upper East Siders never venture into the 30s, Johnny knew that something was off.

 

He placed a bottle of vodka on the counter and inched the free hand towards the gun that was strapped under the bartop. Right as his finger curled around the trigger, she stopped pacing and looked right at him.

 

Blue became his only thought as Johnny stared into the woman’s cerulean orbs, transfixed. Eyes so blue, so clear, it was like looking into tropical ocean water that lulled into the beach. He could feel his body relax against his instincts. “ _She’s suspicious, remember?”_ he thought to himself, but those blue eyes drew him in, a siren softly singing for his death.

 

He loosened his hold on the gun, set the other bottle down, and stepped towards the door to let her in. It was close to opening time anyways and he knew she had come looking for something. Though what that was he wasn’t sure.

 

A step towards the woman, a blink, and again she was gone.

 

Johnny stood still for a minute as he tried to process the awkward moment. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe instead of a siren, she was a personal ghost, come to haunt him with her eyes.

 

Unable to come to any type of reasonable conclusion, he resumed his walk to the front door. He swiveled his head from left to right, looking for the mysterious brunette, and after no luck, he flipped the light switches, illuminating the inside and sign, showing the bar was open for business. Shaking his head, he walked back to the counter, grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam, and poured himself a shot. He swilled it, the flavor of cinnamon intensified due to the gum in his mouth, which created a nice burn as the liquid went down his throat. He exhaled a groan of appreciation and grabbed the last remaining bottles to stock up for the night, hoping to put the memory of those eyes behind him.

 

“ _Not suspicious,”_ he thought. “ _Dangerous._ ” Especially with the way he relaxed with one glance. After a quick moment of deliberation, he grabbed the gun from its holster and tucked it into the back of his jeans. _A person can’t be too careful_.

 

Two minutes later, the bell above the bar door rang, and he looked up. There she was. He narrowed his eyes, his arm inching its way around his back as he opened his mouth to give a glib greeting.

 

She beat him to it.

 

“Hello. Hi. How are you? I’m fine, despite what it may have looked like a few minutes ago.” She gestured to the window behind her. “You see, I don’t normally do this, but right now I’m kind of desperate. And I’m also kind of nervous, so I had to talk myself into doing this, which just resulted in me looking like a crazy person off her meds I’m sure, a real ‘Yellow Wallpaper’ moment, and I wasn’t expecting anyone to see me, so when I saw you were in here, I did the only thing I could think of, which was run, which wouldn’t be the first time. The first time I ever kissed someone, I freaked and immediately ran out of the store, stealing a box of corn starch in the process, which you probably don’t want to know about. Or maybe you do, if you need reassurance that I’ve done this before. I don’t know, but judging from the look on your face, I’ve made enough of a fool of myself, and I’ll stop talking now.”

 

She hurried through her speech and took a deep inhale, her chest rising with the breath, before she stood quiet in front of him, her gaze firmly on the floor.

 

Johnny blinked slow several times, his mind trying to play catch up. As a native New Yorker, he was used to the hustle and bustle of the city, a speed that naturally made its way into people’s speaking. But he had never in his forty-two years of living encountered someone like her. Nervous crazy person with yellow wallpaper whose first kiss resulted in her stealing corn starch. All of that information in twenty seconds. Had the girl even stopped to breathe?

 

He blinked a final time, his arm returning to rest at his side, and refocused his gaze on the woman who was now peering up at him, a timid but hopeful look in her blue eyes. Damn those blue eyes. He shook his head, cleared his throat and opened up his mouth to speak.

 

Only one word came out.

 

“What?”

 

* * *

 

The white piece of paper clutched in her fist had seen better days. It was wrinkled from the numerous times it had been folded, tears present along the creases. The ink on the paper had smudged, the handwriting almost illegible, but it was no matter. Rory had memorized its contents a couple nights ago, when Tristan first gave her the address. Her first real lead.

 

She could lie and pretend that she had everything planned out, but she knew planning only got so far, because life had taught her that nothing ever goes as expected. She knew she would have to talk to a lot of people, but after constant inquiries for three long weeks – her mouth had been exhausted, which never happens – she realized she had no idea what she was doing.

 

And then entered Tristan.

 

Rory had been on her last legs when she ran into her former classmate from Chilton, and despite his ability to drive her crazy in three seconds, she had found him incredibly helpful. Not just for the address, but also the advice. The _Donnie Darko_ quote stood out to her, and when she finally got home that night – she needed another cup of coffee or two to decompress after that conversation – she did a rewatch of the movie, paying particular attention to how Donnie infiltrates the mafia, and as the ending credits rolled on her television screen, that one quote repeated in her mind: “I’m not becoming like them. I am them.”

 

If she wanted to do this, really do this, she would need to start acting like them. And the first step was a wardrobe change. The next day, she had turned her closet upside down, searching for an outfit that didn’t scream rich or socialite. After wading through cocktail dresses and mounds of the trendiest jeans and tops, she finally got to the back of her closet and found on a pair of ripped blue jeans, an old t-shirt from her high school days, and a well worn pair of traditional Converse shoes. The morning after, she put the clothes on and topped the look off with a nice jean jacket (she would have preferred leather, but Logan and his credit cards were currently out of town on a business trip) and pulled her hair into a ponytail. A quick application of makeup, a grab for a shoulder clutch, and she was out the door, hailing a cab for the address in the lower east side of Manhattan.

 

Now, she was here.

 

She opened her fist again, read the contents of the paper for unneeded confirmation, and looked back at the dark building in front of her, the name Lemon Drop barely showing over the awning, even in the light of day. She swallowed quickly, feeling her breath shorten and the nerves crawling up her spine. She took a step away from the closed bar. Coffee. She needed coffee.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, a fresh jolt of caffeine in her veins, she was back in front of the building. _I can do this_ , she thought, as she took a step towards the door. The spiders danced up and down her arms, the hairs raising. She took a step back, took a breath, and repeated in her head: _I can do this._

 

She reached a hand out to the door, froze for a second, feeling her throat get tighter and tighter, before she took off in the opposite direction. _I need to calm down,_ she thought as she hurried down Clinton Street. _I have to make a good impression. I cannot screw this up._ Her hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking.

_Calm down. What calms me down? I’ve already had coffee._ Her eyes scanned the shops on the street before they lit up at the sign of a used bookstore. _Books! I need a book._ Her feet hurried through the crowds on the sidewalk to get to the shop. She could always count on a book to get her through.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, after a much longer break than she had anticipated in the comfiest chair and Dave Eggers’ latest, she was back in front of the bar. This time though, her nerves were at an all time high, her feet making a rut in the concrete sidewalk, and she was doing everything she could to gain some composure. _You are a journalist. This is your only shot. You finally have a lead. Are you seriously going to quit now?_ She emphasized her thoughts with her hands, palms moving up and down through the air as if she was trying to calm a horse or a bull.

 

Logan’s words flitted through her mind: “ _Well, it’s not like you haven’t quit before.”_

 

At his words, she wilted slightly and turned to the building. She looked up and peered into the dark bar and froze. A pair of sharp brown eyes stared back at her.

 

_Oh my God._

The man, who was holding a bottle, set it down on the counter and moved towards her to the door. Rory, engulfed in embarrassment and fear, did the only thing she could think of. She ran. Quickly. Bumping into several people on the street, which led to some choice words directed at her. But she didn’t care. She just needed to get away. Get to somewhere where she could think, could breathe. She ducked into a side street a couple blocks down and leaned against the brick. Her face fell forward into her waiting hands.

 

_What was she doing?_

She let out a long sigh before lowering her hands. Hands her mother gave her. Rory bit her lip, feeling a quiver that signaled an incoming breakdown. What would Lorelai do?

 

She didn’t have to think; she knew. Her mother would have no problem bursting through the doors and talking her way through anything with bubbly sarcasm and a smile, charming anyone in her path. Her grandmother would dictate and insult, relying on money and fear to get what she wanted.

 

And Rory? She apparently ran.

 

Rory sniffed as her fingers traced the hem of her shirt, a black tee with pink rhinestones across the top that said punk princess. Her lips curved upward when she realized the shirt was her mom’s. She must have taken it with her when she moved to Yale. Still leaning against the wall, Rory thought about the home Lorelai had built for her, about the movie nights cuddled on the couch beneath a mountain of pillows, blankets, and junk food. She thought about her childhood listening to metal and punk with her mom and Lane, the three of them dancing around in the living room, yelling the lyrics at the top of their lungs. Bands like Metallica and The Clash, bands she hadn’t listened to in years since Logan didn’t like the music. She closed her eyes as lyrics to “Four Horsemen” came to mind:

 

                        _Oh, you told me how your life was so bad_

_And I agree that it does seem sad_

_But that’s the price that you gotta pay_

_If you’re lazing all around all day_

_Lazing… lazing…_

She glanced down at herself, still against the brick side of a shop. Lazing.

 

_What was she doing?_

Estrangement or not, she was still Lorelai’s daughter, Emily’s granddaughter. She was still a Gilmore.

With a jolt, Rory pushed herself away from the wall and rushed back into the throngs of the LES. She weaved in and out of the way of people, single-focused on getting back to the bar. When she saw the sign for Lemon Drop, now illuminated in neon yellow lights, she picked up the pace and ran inside, a bell ringing to signal her arrival. The guy from before turned around at the sound. Rory hesitated for a second, as she looked at the guy’s appearance for the first time. Short but stout, dressed in a wife beater and slacks, dark brown locks brushed back with gel, a cigar over his ear, his muscles accentuated by the red and blue of his tattoos. She saw he was about to speak, and before she lost her nerve, sped ahead, her mouth taking over in classic Gilmore style.

 

“Hello. Hi. How are you? I’m fine, despite what it may have looked like a few minutes ago.” Rory gestured to the window behind her, feeling her cheeks burn from the embarrassment of being caught. She hurried to continue.

 

“You see, I don’t normally do this, but right now I’m kind of desperate. And I’m also kind of nervous, so I had to talk myself into doing this, which just resulted in me looking like a crazy person off her meds I’m sure, a real ‘Yellow Wallpaper’ moment, and I wasn’t expecting anyone to see me, so when I saw you were in here, I did the only thing I could think of, which was run, which wouldn’t be the first time. The first time I ever kissed someone, I freaked and immediately ran out of the store, stealing a box of corn starch in the process, which you probably don’t want to know about. Or maybe you do, if you need reassurance that I’ve done this before…”

 

She watched as his eyes grew wider and wider, and cursed herself for making this horrible weird first impression. “…I don’t know, but judging from the look on your face, I’ve made enough of a fool of myself, and I’ll stop talking now.”

 

She gulped in a big breath after her tirade and immediately looked to the floor, too humiliated to look this guy in the eye. She was sure she had blown it. _Way to go, Rory. Your only lead and you managed to sink it faster than the Titanic._

 

She kept silent, waiting for a response, but after a few minutes, she dared a glance up, and saw the guy looking at her, bewildered. Finally, he seemed to compose himself, and opened his mouth to speak.

 

“What?”

 

“Oh… um….” Rory replayed her speech in head, cringing slightly at her rambling, before she realized she hadn’t told him why she was in the bar to begin with. She chuckled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I guess I didn’t tell you why I was here.”

 

She glanced again at the man and saw he now wore stony expression, his eyes boring into hers. She cleared her throat nosily. “I mean, um, a j-job. A job. I need a job.”

 

Johnny continued looking at her before turning around and getting back to his tasks. “And some reading lessons while you’re at it,” he said as he grabbed a stack of glasses.

 

“What?” Rory asked, taken aback. She didn’t think anyone had ever told her to get reading lessons before.

 

Johnny looked at her over his shoulder and motioned to the front window. “You see a now hiring sign anywhere up there? Unless you want a drink, I can’t help you.”

 

Rory looked to where he had indicated and realized her blunder. “Oh. I don’t mean a bartending job. I mean, the other job,” she corrected quickly.

 

Johnny’s hands stilled on the glasses. “Other job,” he repeated quietly.

 

“Yeah, you know, the _stealing_ job.” She whispered the last part of her sentence, even though she knew the place was empty except for the two of them.

 

Johnny slowly turned around, his hand moving back to behind his back, grabbing the handle of his gun. He gave a wry smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sweetheart. You got the wrong place. This is a law-abiding establishment.”

 

Rory stood confused for a few seconds, her toes twisting on the wood floors. She looked at the piece of paper still clutched in her hand. “Is – is this not 32 Clinton Street?” She had stared at this paper for two days straight. There’s no way she had the wrong address. _Maybe Tristan was wrong?_

 

“Yup. That’s our address, but as you can see,” he extended an arm. “This is a bar. No stealing going on here.” His eyes hardened as he saw her open her mouth to speak. “You got the wrong place,” he said, his voice lowering into a growl. She flinched and took a step back. “Don’t make me tell you again.” He turned back to stocking his hi-ballers.

 

Rory took a few steps to the door, her mind trying to rationalize what she was hearing. Somehow, she knew that Tristan wasn’t wrong, that she was in the right place. Maybe she needed to be more direct. She twisted on her heel and faced the man again, his back to her at the bar. “Are you sure?” she asked. _Maybe he was new._ “I’m talking about the one for…” she swallowed, the spiders crawling in her chest. “For the mob. You know, the one for the Bennellis?” She finished her question in a high-pitched squeak.

 

At the sound of his boss’s name, Johnny froze.

 

_What. The. Fuck?_

 

His arm started towards his gun, but with people crowding the streets outside and he without a silencer, he knew there would be a witness if he popped off here in this room. He grabbed the edge of the counter instead. “The Bennellis?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. His fingers dug into the wood, feeling it give way slightly. _If not here, then where?_

 

“Yeah.”

 

Johnny nodded, his eyes darting from side to side, until he saw the light from the storage room. He smirked and turned around, his eyebrows raised. “You should’ve said that to begin with, sweetheart.” He wiped the sweat from his palms onto a towel. “Let’s go to the back. We can talk business.”

 

“Really?” Rory’s eyes lit up and she smiled in relief. She hadn’t messed it up after all. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this.” She gave a grateful smile.

 

He nodded, making sure to keep his gaze away from her face, her eyes, and pointed to the back hallway where the storage room was located. “It’s this way,” he said, jerking his thumb sideways. He waited until she walked in front of him before falling into step behind her, his hand going to the small of her back, urging her forward into the room.

 

“Um, this just seems like a storage room,” Rory said as they arrived, looking around. Rows and rows of alcohol sat on the shelves and she stepped forward to read some of the labels when she heard the door shut. She twisted her torso slightly to look behind her, but suddenly a hand was around her arm and she was pushed sideways. She impacted the wall with a hard thud, her breath escaping her lungs.

 

His grip was a vice around her wrists. His weight a boulder against her back. She did her best to inhale, but could barely gasp as he pushed her deep into the wall.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed. “A copper? A fucking fed?”

 

His voice was harsh in her ear. Ragged. He pulled her arm tighter behind her, and she whimpered.

 

“No!” she gasped out, trying to squirm out of his grasp. She bucked her hips backwards, trying to use her height to her advantage against his shorter frame, but her height was no match for his strength. His fingers dug deeper into her skin.

 

“You’re trying to get me to talk? You wearing a wire?”

 

Rory shook her head frantically. “No, please, I’m not --”

 

“You think because you got a pretty face, I’m gonna rat out my family?! You got another thing coming. Now where is it?!”

 

His other arm rubbed down her sides, her legs. It wrapped around her torso and roughly pulled at her shirt. Fingers slipped underneath and scratched and tugged at her skin, moving upwards towards her breasts.

 

 “I don’t have anything! I’m here for the job! I swear!” She blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears in, but they streaked down her face in long lines. _This can’t be happening,_ she thought wildly. His weight lifted and she took in a breath quickly before she felt her body shift again, hard.

 

At her response, he roughly spun her around and pinned her to the wall, his forearm at her neck.

 

“The fuck?!” he spat in her face. She could smell the cinnamon and bourbon on his breath. “An upper east sider like you ain’t looking for no job!”

 

She flinched at each word, her mind finally remembering Tristan’s words from the other night. _Smart and ruthless… careful… can smell a trap coming from a mile away… not gonna grant mercy… no matter how beautiful..._  She mentally chastised herself for being so foolish and careless. Johnny’s voice continued to fill the air.

 

“You can dish out as many stories as you want, but I ain’t buying. Now who the fuck are you?!”

 

Her head slammed back into the wall and Rory lost vision, eyes blurry. She felt sick and dizzy, her body beginning to sag from the onslaught. She tried one last time.

 

Weakly, she said, “I’m just looking for a job.”

 

“Bullshit!” Johnny’s fingers went to her throat and squeezed.

 

Rory’s eyes bulged as she felt her wind pipe close, and scrambling, she unhooked the clutch around her shoulder from its strap. With as much strength as she could muster, she hit his hands over and over with the small purse until she felt pressure release.

 

As Johnny snatched her purse from her, Rory sank to her knees, crumbling onto the floor in a heap. Her hands went to her throat as she wheezed in air, coughing once oxygen hit her lungs.

 

Manic, Johnny tore through her purse, throwing out lipstick, cards, and cash. He searched the pockets, looking for that elusive wire, but found nothing. Slowly, realization hit him. _There was no wire._ His shoulders deflated as anger left him. He took a look at her, rumpled and red on the floor, and met her blue eyes, filled to the brim with tears.

 

_Fuck._ Slowly, his hands released their grip, the clutch falling to the ground in a soft thud.

 

Blue eyes bore into brown, and Johnny searched her eyes, looking for any trace of beguile or deceit, but found none. Silently, he berated himself. He took one last look at her, before turning and walking out of the room.

 

Rory watched as he left, tears still running down her cheeks. She took a quick look at herself and saw her clothes a wrinkled mess and red marks up and down her arms. Gingerly, unsteadily, she got to her feet. She grabbed her purse and its emptied contents off the floor, and wincing, made her way to the door. She peeked out the opening and saw no one. A sob came unbridled to her throat, and her hands rushed to cover her mouth. She bit her knuckle, teeth sinking into skin, and took in deep breaths. _One. Two. Three._

 

When she felt her legs cease their shaking, she swallowed hard and stepped out of the room. She tip-toed down the hallway until she got to the… She froze. There was Johnny by the bar, pouring a drink into a small glass. Her eyes darted around the room looking for another exit as she instinctively took a step back. The floor creaked and Johnny turned around, his eyes finding hers.

 

They stared at each other for a moment, Rory feeling a tight tension in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe, before Johnny took a few steps to her.

 

“Here,” he said, holding out a glass of bourbon to her.

 

Rory looked at the drink, her eyes wide and wet. She switched her gaze to his face, which before was red and puffed with anger. Now it was relaxed and solemn, a hint of guilt registering in his eyes. She bit her lip, but took the glass, quickly tipping the liquor back in her mouth. She winced at the burn, forcing herself to swallow. When she looked back up, Johnny was holding out a rag wrapped around cubes of ice. He pointed to her wrists. “To stop the swelling.”

 

She nodded and grabbed the cold cloth, her teeth clenching when cloth met skin. She held the ice gently against her wrist.

 

“I’m Johnny,” the man said, a hand shifting into his pocket.

 

Her fingers tightened around the empty glass in her hand. Her hands were still shaking. “Rory,” she replied.

 

He took the cigar from behind his ear, grabbed the lighter off the counter and put tobacco to flame, inhaling deeply. “A job, huh?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

 

She nodded. “Yeah.”

 

He took another drag from the cigar before taking the empty glass out of her grasp. Turning, he placed the glass in the sink. He grabbed the dish soap from the bottom cabinet and poured a dab of soap before quickly washing and rinsing the cup. “So,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Corn starch. Anything else, or is that the biggest thing you’ve stolen?” He grabbed a dish towel and wiped the cup dry and then set it down next to the other glasses.

 

Rory chuckled softly, bringing a hand to her face to wipe away tears and move strands of hair away from her face. “No. The biggest thing I’ve stolen was a yacht.”

 

Johnny looked over his shoulder at her admission, eyebrows risen. “A yacht?” he asked, eyes wide, disbelieving.

 

Rory gave a grimace of a smile. “Yeah. It was the end of sophomore year. I was at a party, feeling miserable cause I pretty much failed my internship and had no idea what I was going to do.” She turned her eyes downcast and started picking off the lint on her wrinkled shirt. She continued, “Everything was pissing me off and I remembered what Captain Ahab said about knocking off people’s hats and taking to the sea, so we – me and my boyfriend – we went to the marina and stole one. Didn’t get very far. The cops caught us a few hours later and arrested us, but for a few minutes, it was…”

 

Rory trailed off as she remembered being on the stern, the wind whipping through her hair, and how free she had felt away from responsibilities and expectations. Yes, it was stupid, but when it was just her, the water, and the wind, she had felt…

 

“…Liberating,” she finished.

 

“Hmm…” Johnny mused, tapping away the ashes from his cigar. He reached out and took the melted ice out of her hands. “And Captain Ahab? A mentor of yours?”

 

At that, Rory laughed out loud, a deep guttural laugh, bordering on hysterical, that released the tension from her chest and lungs. She recovered quickly at Johnny’s furrowed brows. “Uh, no. He’s a literary character. The protagonist of _Moby Dick._ ”

 

Johnny’s eyes narrowed at her again, though this time not in suspicion. _Another reader. Interesting._

 

He took another drag of his cigar and looked out the window of his bar. Across the street he saw a familiar face slip inside a store. He grinned. _Perfect._ He reached in his pocket, and with dexterous fingers, found his phone and quickly sent a message. He looked back at the woman, this blue-eyed Rory who was suddenly interested in the floor again, and snuffed out his half-smoked cigar with his fingers. He returned it to behind his ear before speaking again.

 

“All right, Blue Eyes,” he consented. Rory’s head snapped back up at his comment. “If you want a job, you’re gonna have to earn it.” He nodded his head to the busy streets. “Go out and steal something and bring it back. You’ve got one hour.” He smirked before he turned around and busied himself with bringing out his drink mixes for the night.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the young brunette stood quietly for a few minutes, rubbing her wrists, and then exited his bar. Once out the door, she twisted her head back and forth, a look of confusion on her face before she turned to the left, walking west. A few seconds later, he saw the familiar face leave the shop.

 

A wolfish grin slowly spread across Johnny’s face. All he had to do was wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Across the street, a young man, who had just seated himself in a corner of a bookstore, a beat up novel and pen waiting in his hands, felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Pulling it out, he quickly read the text:

 

_Blue Eyes. Punk Princess. Full or empty suit? Clock._

 

He lifted his eyes in time to see through the cracks of bookshelves a woman exit Lemon Drop. With steady and inscrutable eyes, he watched the attractive woman, her arms wrapped around her chest, look around for a minute before she disappeared in the crowd of people.  He stood up, sighed, and put both his phone and book in his back pocket. _To Have and Have Not_ would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. I cannot believe it has been over two months since I last updated this story. Unfortunately, I’ve been swamped at work these last two months, going from working around 20-25 hours to working about 50 hours a week. Which left me so exhausted, that I didn’t feel like writing when I got home, sad to say. But thankfully, I just came off a five-day vacation (I went out of town for a family reunion) and was able to do a lot of writing in that time.
> 
>  
> 
> As you can see, this is just part one of a chapter that originally ended up being almost 10,000 words, which is too much. I was able to cut it down to just over half that, so hopefully you guys enjoyed the extra length this time. The second part is mostly written. Just have to finish up two more scenes, so hopefully I’ll have that up soon for you guys, hopefully within the next week. It definitely won’t be another two months before I update again, though. I’m so very sorry. Thankfully, I’m quitting my job in a few weeks to go back to school, and I should have some more time to devote to writing.
> 
>  
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, kudoed, or bookmarked this story. Your feedback means a lot. Please let me know what you think of this chapter. It was a hard one for me to write and I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
>  
> 
> Until Next!


	5. First Impressions (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Gilmore Girls
> 
> Pairing: Literati (Jess/Rory); there will also be some moments of Sophie (Logan/Rory) and very brief moments of Narco (Dean/Rory)
> 
> Story Type: AU in which Rory never met Jess in her teens and Jess grew up in the Mafia.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own GG, its characters, or any other references that will occur in this story. Please don't sue me.

Rory walked up Clinton Street with a limp in her step, her left ankle protesting when she put too much pressure on it.

Like now.

She stopped and winced, a grimace appearing on her face as she lifted up her leg, hoping to alleviate the throbbing pain. Replacing her foot back on the ground, she continued on while silently thanking herself. She was grateful she had chosen to go with the black low-top chuck taylor’s instead of a pair of high heels today. She could have easily broken a bone if she had been teetering on 4-inch spikes while trying to shake Johnny’s large body off of hers.

She took another step and bit back the steady throbbing that really seemed present everywhere. She had a job to do. And roughly thirty minutes left to do it.

Johnny had given her one hour to steal something and bring it back to him, and for the last half hour, she had been ambling with no real direction in mind, doing her best to keep from throwing up or falling down an open sewer hole. Johnny’s assault – cause really there was no other word for it – had left her more shaken than she wanted to admit, and the logical part of her brain told her to stop this journalistic nonsense now before she got herself killed.

And really, how was she not dead? Naïve, she had walked right into that bar, completely careless and giving no thought to any of the consequences. Had she really just blurted out that she wanted to work for the Bennellis? To a complete stranger who worked in the mob? Apparently yes. On the plus side, her information from Tristan turned out to be rock solid. The downside of that, however, was that her body had become a temporary punching bag. She half-suspected sand to come flowing right out of her.

But it didn’t. Because Johnny stopped. He stopped. And now was giving her a chance to prove herself. The reason why she had no idea, but she couldn’t let this moment pass her, especially with her shot of the foreign correspondent desk on the line. She needed this chance. And she needed to deliver.

The classic red brick of the city’s architecture stood out as she made her way through the busy streets – or rather, it was the wrought-iron that encompassed the buildings; industrial and cold, they invoked feelings of prison, of being caged. The balconies protruding from windows in tight boxes; the fire escapes that promised freedom but stopped feet away from the pavement; the black bars against windows and the heavy metal doors of empty stores padlocked to the ground: they imposed themselves on her consciousness, growing larger and larger in her mind’s eye, making her feel tiny by comparison.

She took a breath to steady herself, clasped her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking, and focused her gaze strictly on the store signs as she passed them.

The bright yellow awning that advertised clothes in red letters.

The small, dingy white sign with faded gold letters barely spelling tobacco.

The large square image that depicted a cup of steaming coffee in dark green and brown colors. She closed her eyes and inhaled, imagining the strong aroma of ground beans filling her nose. 

In seconds, her mouth watered.

Before she was fully aware, she ducked herself into the small café and grabbed a large espresso, downing it in record time. Hopefully, the dark roast with zero cream would fire off the synapses in her brain that felt as dead as her feet.

A couple minutes later, Rory stepped outside the store and threw away the empty cup in the garbage can next to the door. She sharply winced when her arm protested the movement. She slid back her sleeve, and her eyes widened when she saw the red marks from before turning into a deep purple. She cradled her arm gently before a flash of Johnny’s forearm against her back flooded her brain and she shook her head violently, trying to get rid of the memory.

She had to concentrate, even though all she wanted at the moment was to be back in her apartment, curled up in bed with rocky road and watching the John Hughes marathon on AMC. 

She exhaled slowly, continuing down the street, interweaving herself through the ever-present pedestrian traffic. She passed by the quintessential businessmen, dressed in black Armani and Portofino suits, keeping their briefcases close to their sides as they briskly strode, heading back home. She dodged the path of running teens in mid-drifts, cut-offs, and Vans, enjoying the city as the sun gradually gave way into dusk.

Minutes passed, and her fingers increasingly fidgeted with her purse strap as she found herself no closer to an idea. What was she thinking trying to come across as a practiced thief? She wasn’t a thief, despite what her criminal record may say. The only times she had lifted anything were on accident or abandon. And now that she needed to steal on purpose, _with purpose,_ there was no way she could do it. 

Except she had to or the last month, the last hour, would have been for nothing. And do it quickly, she mentally chided as she noticed the time on the post clock across the street. She had just under twenty minutes to complete her assignment and make it back to the Lemon Drop before she was completely dead in the water. She let out another heavy sigh, dragging a hand down her face before glancing around at the stores again. 

She saw a liquor store a block ahead, and her feet started in that direction. She knew she could steal something there, given her days of swiping champagne from her grandparents as she, Logan, and the LDB went on a night of adventure and mischief. A plan came quickly together in her mind; she’d flirt and smile at the employee, slipping a bottle underneath her shirt as she distracted him with her rapid conversation, an inherent trait of a Gilmore.

Her Converse clad toes stuttered against the sidewalk when she remembered that Johnny already worked in a bar. He wouldn’t need alcohol when he had shelves of it lining the walls of his storage room.

The storage room.

Rory froze in her steps a few doors away from the liquor store and closed her eyes, biting her lip as a wave of memories hit her full force. The cool harshness of the wall, the side of her face smashed against it. The calluses on his hands as he twisted her arms behind her. His hot and spicy breath puffing in her face. Her body weakly thrashing as his arm drove deeper and deeper into her neck. She could feel her throat constricting, her airways cutting off. She rubbed her throat repeatedly, the phantom feeling of fingers squeezing growing stronger and stronger...

A hard shove came from behind and Rory gasped as she stumbled forward, air filling back into her lungs, breaking the trance. She quickly straightened, felt her cheeks start to burn, and darted into the door right beside her. 

<><><><><><>  

Smoke billowed from Jess’ lips in small clouds as he exhaled, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. He fiddled with the small stick in his fingers, ignoring the ash as it split from the tip and dropped to the ground. He was agitated, annoyed, the day and his plans slipping away. He was all set, sitting in his favorite bookstore with a great book in his hand when he got the text from Johnny. As a soldier of the Bennelli crime family, a family he had been working for since he was 16, he was obligated to carry out any order from the consigliere, the Boss’s right-hand man. So now, here he was, having wasted the past – he double checked his watch – _40 minutes_ following this brunette up and down this street, with what seemed to be no real direction in mind.

The reason why, or rather lack of one, was frustrating him even more. He had no idea why Johnny wanted him to follow this woman. Aside from a slight limp, an admittedly attractive ass, and a pretty face he vaguely recalled from the split second he had seen her through the bookstore window, there was nothing remarkable about this girl. Especially nothing that should have taken his attention away from Hemingway. _To Have or Have Not_ was itching in his back pocket, and he was close to walking away and finding a nice secluded place to sit down and entrance himself in Key West, relishing in the underbelly of seedy black markets.

He took another drag of the cigarette, enjoying the feeling of nicotine as it raced through his throat to his lungs. Immediately, the tension subsided, and his shoulders sagged in relaxation. Despite public perception and the numerous warnings on television for lung cancer, he could never throw away his cigarettes, his choice of drug from all the way back to his pre-teen days. And it was because of times like this. Nothing else could calm him down the way a pack of Marlboro Reds could. Not even a book.

He exhaled again as his eyes scanned for the woman. He watched as she walked into a store, and he let out a groan in relief. _Finally,_ he thought, hoping for something more exciting than this dull metronome of a trek he was getting. Using his lanky stature to his advantage, he easily bobbed and weaved his way through the small slivers of space in between the bodies on the sidewalk. Soon, he was stopped outside a shop. A quick glance upwards at the sign, and he realized he was in front of a small café. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What could possibly be important in a coffee shop? He tried to recall if this was a hangout for another family, but his mind came up empty.

He turned his head, and through the window saw the young female at the counter, handing the barista a couple bills before taking a large cup of coffee and bringing it to her lips. His jaw loosened in disbelief, and suddenly the irritation from before flooded his brain 

_Oh, fuck this_ , he mentally scoffed. _Johnny could do this shit himself_. He let out an audible groan as he reversed on the spot, completely set on returning to the cozy bookstore that smelled of cinnamon and dusty old papers.

A loud jingle distracted him, and he cast a glance behind him.

Long brown hair, clear porcelain skin, pink lips, and the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. He stood frozen as the woman he had been following all day quickly drowned her drink and threw it away.

All day, he had been wondering what the deal was with this girl, and when she shifted back her sleeve, his blood ran cold in recognition. The bruises covering her arms said one thing: she had been beaten.

His mind flitted through the possible scenarios. _Husband, boyfriend, ex, pimp?_ A quick glance at her clothes dismissed that idea. She wasn’t dressed like some kind of sex worker. No, some kind of lover was more likely….

A buzzing in his pocket broke him out of his stare, and he reached down and grabbed his phone out of his black jeans. A text from Johnny lit up the screen. _“Update. Full or Empty?”_

He stared at the phone, his finger tapping repeatedly against the screen as he contemplated the question. From everything he had seen today, there didn’t seem to be anything prominent about this woman. However – his finger paused, resting on the silver edge – his instinct, a tingling at the back of his neck, was telling him to hold off from telling Johnny anything definitive. He couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the bruises on her arms or the way she stopped him in her tracks with just glimpse of her eyes. But something was telling him there was something about this girl.

He turned the screen off and slid the phone back into his pocket. He scanned the faces of the crowd, looking up and down the street, and spotted the brunette on the opposite sidewalk, standing still just outside a bodega. He pursed his lips, watched as a rude pedestrian practically barreled her over, before she sprung to life and darted into the store.

Yup. There was something about this girl, he thought, before quickly crossing the street and entering the small shop after her.

<><><><><><> 

She took a deep breath once inside and scanned around. A simple convenience store. There was a guy at the front counter, sitting next to a register behind a thick pane of plastic glass, staring at her. He was short and stout, not unlike Johnny in his appearance, wearing a similar wife beater with his hair greased back.  His lips were pressed in a straight line.

She smiled weakly and headed for the aisles. She ambled down the rows of shelves full of food and knickknacks, squeezing past a few customers who were grabbing snacks out of boxes. For a couple minutes, she let her hands brush through the packages hanging off the small hooks, relishing the first moment of peace she had had all day. 

A hand reached out from behind her, and Rory started, letting out a small yelp as she twisted around. 

“Whoa!” A man dressed in all black with dark hair and olive skin said, palms up in front of him. He was looking at her hand warily.

Rory followed his gaze, and her eyes bugged as she realized the situation. She was holding a package of scissors aimed towards him. Immediately she dropped her hand. “I – I –”

He lowered his arms, shifting out of his defensive stance when he saw her body relax. “You know, you’d find it more effective to stab someone if you actually took the scissors out of the packaging.”

“I – that wasn’t – I didn’t mean – I – I’m sorry,” she stammered, twisting the blue scissors in her hand. She felt her pulse quicken, her heart thumping loudly in her ear. So much for the peace and quiet.

His lips twitched at the corner of his mouth, clean-shaven. “It’s cool. My fault too. I should have said something. Though I hear it’s cathartic.”

Rory nodded but barely registered his words. Her mind was focused on her spiked heart rate. She mentally told herself to calm down, but her body paid no mind. It jittered as though she had downed ten cups of coffee. After a few silent seconds, she blinked and refocused on the stranger’s face, noting the small crease of concern in his forehead.  He was peering back at her.

Her hands reflexively tightened against the scissors. “What?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

His head cocked to the side, mouth pursing thoughtfully. “Bad day?” he asked. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, his hips pushed forward slightly, shifting his body into a lazy, comfortable slouch. 

Rory opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t answer. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how her day had been. She had confirmed that the Lemon Drop was indeed a mob hangout. She had somehow gotten Johnny to give her a chance. But the bruises covering her arms and back told a different story. 

“Confused?”

His question prompted her to look back at him. She thought for a moment before replying, “You could say that.”

“Huh. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m just gonna…” He pointed to the shelf behind her. 

She blinked, jolted out of her staring, and moved to the side as he stepped forward, grabbing some super glue off the hook. 

When he leaned back, he gave her a half-smile. “See you around, Boo.”

She watched as he turned and walked away, her gaze running down the expanse of his black t-shirt to his baggy jeans that rested low on his hips. A book was nestled into his pocket, and her eyes followed the sway of his body, his book following his gait as it moved up and down. She squinted her eyes to see if she could make out the title when a small and sudden movement from his arm shifted her gaze. Her eyes widened as she saw a familiar package slide under his sleeve.  Calm, cool, collected, the guy nodded to the clerk before leaving out of the store.

Rory stood dumbstruck for a minute, trying to process the information that someone had just stolen something from the store, a task that she was supposed to be doing. She looked back at the scissors still in her hand, the package now wrinkled from her wringing. She looked around, making sure no one was watching, but found the clerk staring at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She gulped and replaced the scissors back on the shelf.

Feeling nervousness flow back into her body, Rory immediately went down another aisle, eager to get anything into her purse and out the store. She felt jittery, her rising panic racing through her arms, her legs, and as a person passed her, she jumped and tripped over her feet to the left. She reached out a hand to break her fall and knocked an entire shelf of candy, along with her clutch, to the floor in a loud crash. 

Rory watched in horror as Airheads, Skittles, Jellybeans, Big Red, Doublemint, Red Vines, and much more flew through the air before scattering across the tiled linoleum. She jerked her head up, hoping no one had seen this embarrassing gaffe, and through the window, her eyes locked onto the thief from a minute earlier. He was looking back, a smirk spreading wide across his face. When he saw her gaze, he quirked an eyebrow, amusement quite evident, before he raised a hand, waved, and walked down the street. She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she had the same grace and poise he had, before a loud shout in her ear jostled her and broke her out of her stupor. The store clerk that had been eyeing her was now fast approaching. “Che cosa hai fatto?! Stai rovinando il mio negozio! Pazzo Americano!”

She flinched back at the volume and bent down to clean up her wreckage. She blindly grabbed a few sticks of candy, but two large hands grasped her arms. She cringed, immediately dropped the snacks, and stepped away from the man. The dark Italian continued to bark at her, now emphasizing his words with a pointed finger. “Esci! Partire!" 

She eyed the clerk and the candy, feeling guilty for the chaos she had caused and wondered what she could do. He raised his arm again – she took another step back – and pointed to the door. She turned her head to the exit and realized what he wanted from her. She dropped her head, defeated, and chided herself because she was out of time and had nothing to show Johnny, before spotting her purse amidst a pile of Red Vines and Big Red gum sticks. She pointed to the small bag on the floor, making sure the clerk understood, and reached down, swiping a package of candy as she grasped the edges of her purse. Holding the leather material tightly, she felt paper wrapper press against her palm.

She walked quickly, kept her head low as she made it out the door and down the street. When she was a block away, she released her fingers slowly and looked at what she had stolen. A small pack of cinnamon gum rested in her hand. She glared at the offending object that seemed to be mocking her before heaving out a sigh. It wasn’t much, but at least she had something.

<><><>  

Jess slinked out from the dark-lit alley and stared at the “punk princess” brunette as she hurried through the crowd, heading back to the Lemon Drop, a small prize in her hand. A smirk playfully tugged at the corner of his lips as he thought back to a few minutes before and the commotion she caused in order to steal something. All of that for a piece of gum. A chuckle forced its way past his lips. Punk princess indeed. 

A moment later, he grabbed his phone and finally answered the text from Johnny before pulling out his battered Hemingway from his pocket. In seconds, he was immersed in the text, the traffic, crowds, and the reddish gold of the approaching sunset disappearing in a sea of black ink.

<><><><><><> 

When Rory got back to the bar, it was open for business; a few patrons had seated themselves at the counter, nursing a drink and a cigar between their lips. Rory scrunched her nose at the smell and looked around for Johnny. She spotted him by the far end of the bar, serving a drink to an older gentleman. 

She cleared her throat and made her way over to him.

“Here,” she said as she tossed the stick of gum to Johnny. “It’s what you’re chewing, right?”

Johnny grabbed it out of the air and looked at it. He narrowed his eyes and glanced back at her. More perceptive than he thought. He turned back to his customer, handing him his drink. “If you need anything else, it’s gonna be a few minutes,” he whispered. “The dame and I have to talk business." 

Rory felt her stomach clench when the old customer peered at her and smirked. She took an involuntary step back. Johnny wiped his hands on a towel, threw it over his shoulder, and nodded his head to the right. Rory glanced where he had gestured and felt relief when it was just a table towards the corner, not the storage room. 

She followed him to a small two-seater pushed against the wall and slid into the chair. Johnny copied her and stared. She felt her eyes wander, uncomfortable with the probe of his gaze. When she finally looked back at him, he raised an eyebrow at her. “Well?” 

“Um… well what?” 

His eyes quickly narrowed at her and Rory gulped.

“Do you have something for me?” he said slowly, enunciating each word.

“What do you mean? I just gave it to you.” 

He blinked slowly and reached a hand into his pocket, dragging out the small sticks of gum. “This?” he asked, holding up the red package. “This is what you decided to go with?”

“Yeah,” Rory drawled out, nervousness creeping into her voice.

Johnny paused a moment before bursting out in laughter. Huge guffaws spilled from his lips and bounced around the room, shocking the few customers who had turned to look at him.  

Rory squirmed in her seat and puffed out an aggravated sigh. She was so not in the mood to be mocked right now. She had gone through enough today already. Gradually, Johnny’s laughs died down and she waited for the final verdict.

He took one look at her, shook his head, and got up from the table. “Goodbye, sweetheart,” he said gruffly, heading back over to the counter. 

“Wait, what?” She grabbed his arm as he walked past. He glared at her hand and then at her. She swallowed noisily before letting go and standing up. “I did exactly what you asked,” she said as his eyes turned to slits, reminding her of a snake readying to strike. She hurried on. “I went out and I got something. You owe me a job.” She forced herself to look Johnny in the eye, her back straightened.

Johnny raised his eyebrows. The gall of this girl. “I don’t owe you anything, sweetheart. This was a test. You didn’t pass.” He shifted to the right and walked past back to the bar.

She followed him, ignoring the affronted customers as she brushed past them and stood at the bar. “Why not?” Rory cried, irritation bubbling inside her. “I did exactly what you asked me to. I’m even back within the hour.”

He took a look at the customers sitting at the bartop and nodded his head to the left. “Beat it,” he commanded quietly. When they had left, he turned back to the woman that was testing his patience. “Because this!” he snarled in her face, holding up the gum in his left hand, “is child’s play! Any five-year-old could knock off a candy store!” He watched as she took a step away from him, shirking slightly, and leaned himself across the counter, closing the distance. His face was stone cold looking at her alarmed one. “What do you think this is? Some kind of welfare system or somethin’? This is the big leagues, kid. It takes a bit of imagination. Obviously somethin’ you don’t have.”

Rory, who had been flinching from his closeness and outburst, felt the irritation roil in her stomach, churn into anger that shone through her eyes. She grabbed hold of it, letting it steel her against the larger man. She knew she would be tested, but she stole something just like he asked. And after everything, after the month she had spent chasing after every possible lead, after fighting with Logan and Tristan over whether or not she could even do this assignment, after the beating she had received in this very bar and the last embarrassing hour – no, she was not going home empty-handed.

“If you wanted imagination, then maybe you shouldn’t have knocked me around and tried to kill me an hour ago!” she snapped, relishing the jerk of his head as he looked sharply back at her. “How do you expect me to think when every part of me hurts and I’m on an HOUR deadline? You wanted something flashy? You should have been more specific. You just said go and steal something. That’s what I did. You. Owe. Me. A. Job.” She punctuated her last statement with a jab against his chest before glaring at him. She crossed her arms, defiance written in every part of her stance.  

Johnny stared back at her, scanning her face. He saw the smooth line of her forehead. The furrows of her brows. The thin line of her lips. The sharp set of her clenched jaw. And those aqua blue eyes. Those damn blue eyes, lit up with determination, were a beacon in the smokiness of the bar.  A woman hadn’t spoken to him like this in years, not since Carla…

He could see his wife standing before him now, her hands crossed over her chest and eyebrows raised in challenge. That’s what had drawn him to her. Carla was a challenge, just like this woman. 

When Jess finally texted him back, just a few minutes before Rory re-entered the bar, he had typed only one word: _“Intrigued.”_

Begrudgingly, Johnny had to agree. Had she stolen something impressive? No, definitely not, but this Rory girl was right. She had stolen something. And right after he had roughed her up. At the very least, it showed she had some spirit, some sass, some gumption.

His lips quirked up and he nodded. “Okay, Blue Eyes,” he relented. “I’ll give you one job. Do well, and we’ll see about more work.”

Rory squinted her eyes at him, looking for a trace of deceit anywhere on his face. Finding none, she slowly relaxed, removed her arms from her chest before breathing a sigh of relief. A smile crawled across her face. She had passed.

Johnny felt a tremor in his chest at the sight, and he briefly pondered what was more dangerous: her eyes or her smile. He gave her a subtle wink before he bent down and pushed a button under the counter. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Finally! I hope the inclusion of Jess makes up for the long wait in between chapters. This was a really frustrating time for me. When I last posted, I had the majority of this chapter already written. Really all I needed to do was include Jess’ point of view and polish it up. But for some reason, Jess’ POV was harder for me to write. So that took a few months to write up. And then, when I was a few hours away from uploading the story, my hard drive completely crashed. And being the apparently unprepared person that I am, I only had this chapter saved onto my computer, and not in the cloud, so I lost EVERYTHING. That also included my nearly finished - I was so proud of it – chapter 2 of The Weight We Carry. Just a warning for anyone who thinks they can take a few days before backing their files up, DON’T. BACK EVERYTHING UP IMMEDIATELY. 
> 
> Needless to say, I was angry and heartbroken and needed a few weeks to calm down from that crushing disappointment. Then, I bought a new hard drive, started again, and was able to get most of this chapter completed, when literally a few weeks later, the new hard drive crashed. I have never, in my entire life, with my macbook laptops, ever encountered a hard drive going out that quickly. Unfortunately, I had just spent my last few dollars, and had to wait until I had the money to buy another one, which ended up being a few days ago. Thankfully, I had learned my lesson, and had saved this chapter, so a couple days of editing and it is done.
> 
> I’m about to head back for my last semester in grad school, the semester in which my thesis is due, so a lot of time will be devoted in getting that completed. Considering how things went this last semester, I’m not promising any quick updates anymore. I’ll be happy if I can update once every couple of months, but again, no promises. However, be assured that I WILL finish this fic, and my other GG fic. The passion for Literati has not dwindled or gone away. In fact, I’m inundated with new ideas all the time, so know that I will be working, when I’m able to write, to get more chapters up.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this one, given my unusual struggles. Let me know what you think, if you would, by leaving me a review. I take any kind, even criticism. Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Until next!
> 
> P.S. Italian phrases are as follows: (this is all from google translate. I do not speak Italian.)
> 
> Che cosa hai fatto – What are you doing?  
> Stai rovinando il mio negozio – You’re ruining my store  
> Pazzo Americano – Crazy American  
> Esci – Get out  
> Partire – Leave it

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this idea has been stewing in my head for the better part of a year. It just popped into my head one day and wouldn’t leave, and I’m just now starting to put it all down on paper. It’s a suspenseful slow burn (as well as I can write it) so expect this story to be a bit on the longer side… probably around 20 chapters or so.
> 
> A little bit about it: as the summary suggests, this will be an AU that focuses on Rory’s journey for her dream and discovering what her dream actually is. Jess’ entire background will be completely different as he’s grown up in the Mafia, which I will explain in chapters to come. Rory’s background is pretty much the same up to Season 7, minus a couple of departures. Since Jess wasn’t there to influence Rory, her relationship with Dean lasted longer, meaning there’s no second breakup and no Lindsey affair. Also, I made the season 6 rift between Lorelai and Rory bigger in this story, but it won’t be permanent cause you can’t keep the Gilmore girls away from each other forever. 
> 
> This first chapter is setting the stage for the main plot of the story, so I apologize that there’s no Jess yet. He is coming, but he won’t be arriving until around chapter 4 or 5. Please stick with it though as I promise this is a Literati story (not a Sophie). Rory’s got to work a bit before she can come into contact with Jess :) 
> 
> If there’s anything that feels really out of character, please let me know. I’ve only watched seasons 5-7 once and it was a long time ago, so my knowledge of these characters’ relationships from that time is a bit murky. I’m trying to avoid watching those seasons (cause I didn’t enjoy them as much), but I will to get the characters right.
> 
> For those of you wishing to see a sequel/continuation to “For The Love Of Howl,” please stay tuned. Thanks to the wonderful reviews both here and on fanfiction.net, my mind’s working to write a bit more in that particular universe.
> 
> As always, if you would be so kind, please leave a review or kudos or bookmark and let me know what you think.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Until next :)


End file.
